Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Brad Hammersmith, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ryan Carmichael, Victor St. Simon, Connor Connors, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alcohol, Friendship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Las Vegas Wedding, Crack Treated Seriously

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-06 Words: 3,745 Chapters: 1/1

White Wedding

Summary

A drunk night with the Raiders leads to a vegas wedding. For green card reasons, off course.

Notes

I just love this stupid bros so much

Vegas didn't do subtle, which worked, because neither did the Raiders after a win.

The bass hit before the door even opened, low and physical, the kind that settled into your ribs, and then they were inside, swallowed whole by light and heat and noise that didn't care who you were. The air tasted like dry ice and expensive cologne and something sharper underneath, bodies packed too close, temperature rising.

"Jesus," Connors said, glancing around, already grinning. "This is a professional environment."

"It is loud," Rozanov said, like he was commenting on ice conditions.

Beside hi, Marley nodded. "Yeah. Sound."

Rozanov looked at him. "Insightful."

"Thank you."

St-Simon didn't bother with any of it. He was already moving, cutting through the crowd toward the bar like he had a destination. Hammersmith peeled off after him immediately, and Connors followed because of course he did.

Carmichael hung back half a step, eyes moving.

Rozanov glanced at him. "You look like you're about to clear the place."

"Just checking exits."

"Good," Marley said. "Fire."

Rozanov exhaled slowly. "I am surrounded by idiots."

"Smart idiots," Marley said.

Rozanov tilted his head. "Debatable."

By the time they reached the bar, drinks were already there, St-Simon leaning against it like he'd been there for five minutes instead of thirty seconds. Glasses slid across.

No one asked.

"Vodka," Rozanov said anyway.

Connors made a face. "Bro. We're in Vegas."

"I know where I am."

"Then act like it. Expand your horizons a little."

"My horizons are fine. I am good like this."

Hammersmith snorted. "You're Russian. This is, like, baseline."

Rozanov picked up the glass, eyed it. "I am not drinking tequila."

"You are," St-Simon said calmly. "Tonight, you are."

Carmichael leaned in slightly. "That sounds like a threat, man."

"It is."

Marley lifted his drink, gave it a cautious sniff. "This smells like a mistake."

"Drink it," Connors said immediately.

Marley did. Blinked once.

"Yeah," he said. "Mistake."

They knocked them back. One, then another, then something St-Simon insisted on that burned all the way down and stayed there.

Connors leaned back against the bar, pointing at Rozanov like something had just occurred to him mid-thought.

"Okay, new rule."

Rozanov didn't even look at him. "No."

"Team rule," Connors went on.

Rozanov sighed. "I already do not like this."

"You're not allowed to pick anyone up tonight."

That got his attention. Rozanov turned. "Excuse me?"

"Team bonding," Hammersmith said. "We stay together."

"You can bond without me, yes?"

Connors shook his head. "Nope. You always disappear."

"I do not—"

"You do," Carmichael cut in, quiet but firm.

Marley nodded. "Yeah."

Rozanov looked at him. "You also?"

Marley shrugged.

St-Simon took a sip. "There is a pattern."

Rozanov looked around at all of them, unimpressed. "This is stupid."

"Oh, incredibly," Connors said. "Still happening."

A beat.

Rozanov exhaled through his nose. "Fine. I do not pick up girls. I stay with you."

Connors lit up. "There it is."

"We bond," Rozanov added flatly.

Hammersmith grinned. "He said it like it hurt him."

"You will regret this," Rozanov said.

"Worth it," Connors said.

They moved as a group toward the dance floor, pulled in by the music whether they meant to or not. Connors went first, arms already up, yelling something that got swallowed by the bass. Hammersmith followed with the confidence of someone who had never once worried about rhythm. St-Simon slipped in like he'd planned it. Carmichael hesitated, then committed.

Marley tried.

That was generous. He was moving, technically, weight side to side, arms doing…something, but he was half a beat off, like he was catching the music late every time.

Rozanov watched him for a second.

"No," he said.

Marley glanced over. "What."

"You are not dancing. This is not dancing.”

"I am," Marley said, shifting again and missing it slightly. "I am."

"No, you are not," Rozanov said, making a face. "Stop. Stop. You make it worse.”

"I'm helping."

"You are not helping."

Rozanov grabbed his shoulder, turned him a few degrees, and demonstrated, easy and natural, exactly on beat in a way that did not help at all.

Marley tried again.

Still late.

Rozanov squinted at him. "…better."

It wasn't.

Marley nodded anyway. "Yeah."

Rozanov huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head, but he stayed. He did not disappear like he usually did. He just stayed there with them, moving enough to count, drink in hand.

Time blurred. Drinks showed up. Connors got louder. Hammersmith got worse in a way that was impressive. St-Simon kept things just shy of disaster. Carmichael stopped scanning exits.

At some point Rozanov came back from the bar, eyes flicking over the floor, and found Marley in the exact same spot.

Still trying. Still off.

Rozanov exhaled through his nose, set his drink down somewhere careless, and stepped in behind him without saying anything.

A hand to the shoulder, then lower to his hip, pulling him into the beat.

Marley went with it automatically, adjusting.

For a second, he had it.

Then he drifted.

Then he caught it again.

"Hey," Marley started.

"Move with me,” Rozanov said, close enough to be heard. “Just move, yeah?”

Marley did.

Not because he got it, but because Rozanov was basically doing it for both of them, keeping him on rhythm, keeping him there.

"Okay," Marley said, like that explained anything.

Rozanov did not let go. His hand stayed firm at Marley's hip, keeping him lined up as he settled into the music properly, hips rolling slow and steady, right on the bass.

Marley adjusted without thinking, stance widening a little to stay balanced, one hand coming up to Rozanov's side.

Across the floor, Connors saw it and immediately folded.

"Oh my, Hamm— Hammersmith, look."

Hammersmith turned, processed it, and lost his mind. "No, no way."

St-Simon glanced over, took one look, and just smiled into his drink.

Carmichael watched for a second, then laughed.

"ROZY!" Connors yelled. "Thought you weren't— hold on."

"I am not!" Rozanov shot back, not even looking, still moving.

"That counts!" Hammersmith shouted.

"It does not count!"

"It absolutely counts!"

Rozanov finally glanced over, expression sharp, hand still planted at Marley's hip. "It is Marley. It does not count.”

Marley, still moving and still slightly off, nodded. "Yeah."

Connors doubled over. "He said it doesn't count, oh my god."

"Hammersmith," St-Simon said, raising his glass, "that is elite loophole work."

"Marleau!" Hammersmith called. "You alive over there?"

Marley considered it. "...getting there."

"He is not getting there," Rozanov said.

"I'm closer."

"Barely."

"Rozy," Hammersmith said, grinning now, "you look real comfortable."

"I am always comfortable."

"Yeah," Connors said. "We can see that from here."

Marley glanced sideways at him. "You're drunk."

"I am not."

"You are."

Rozanov tilted his head slightly with the beat. "…maybe."

He did not move away.

The bass hit again, low and constant, and Rozanov stayed right where he was, loose, grounded, completely at ease, one hand still steady at Marley's hip while Marley kept trying, kept missing it by just enough,

and did not seem to care.

Around them, the rest of the Raiders circled, laughing, shouting, feeding it, because of course they did.

They didn't so much leave as spill out.

The doors swung open and the night hit them all at once, warm desert air, dry after the wet heat of the club, neon bleeding colour across the pavement. The Strip buzzed with its own particular insanity, too bright, too loud, music spilling out of every doorway they passed. The sudden absence of bass felt like something physical, like pressure releasing.

Connors stumbled forward, arms wide. "Oh my god, fresh air is fake."

Rozanov squinted at the lights. "It is still loud."

"It's outside," Carmichael said.

"Still loud," Marley agreed.

Hammersmith caught the curb wrong and grabbed Connors, who immediately leaned into him like they were both about to die.

St-Simon came out last, looking completely fine in a way that was absolutely a lie.

Rozanov drifted a few steps from the group and stopped. His hand was already in his jacket pocket, muscle memory, fingers finding the soft pack before he'd made a conscious decision about it. He tapped one out, put it between his lips, and cupped his hand around the flame.

"Rozy," Connors said, noticing immediately because Connors always noticed. "Team doctors are gonna lose their minds."

"Team doctors, they are asleep," Rozanov said, smoke curling out on the exhale.

"Team policy," Hammersmith started.

"We won," Rozanov said. Just that.

A beat.

Hammersmith nodded. "Fair enough."

Marley stood nearby, hands in his pockets, watching the Strip without comment. The neon caught in his eyes, reds and blues, the yellow glow of a casino sign somewhere down the block. He didn't say anything about the cigarette. He never did.

Rozanov took another drag, let it settle, and blew the smoke sideways away from the group out of habit.

"Those'll kill you," Carmichael said, but mildly, the way you said something you'd already said too many times to mean it urgently.

"Yes," Rozanov agreed.

Connors just…started walking.

No direction. Just forward.

Hammersmith went with him. Carmichael hesitated, then followed. St-Simon drifted in like he'd always been part of it.

Rozanov smoked the last inch of it as he walked, then dropped it and ground it out under his shoe. The cherry died on the pavement.

They fell into step, him and Marley a half-beat behind the others, the way they usually ended up.

The Strip was chaos, lights, people, music spilling out of doorways, but it felt slower than the club somehow. Stretched out. Room to think, which was not always a good thing.

Connors turned and started walking backwards, pointing at all of them like he was mid-speech.

"We should do this all the time. Like this. All of us. Forever."

"Forever's a long time," St-Simon said.

"No, I'm serious," Connors said. "Like when we're, what, seventy? Same group."

"You're gonna be unbearable at seventy," Carmichael said.

"I'm unbearable now," Connors shot back. "That's consistency."

Marley nodded. "Good trait."

Connors pointed at him. "Thank you. Finally."

Rozanov had gone quiet, hands back in his pockets now. Eyes tracking the ground, the lights, the people moving past. The cigarette had taken the edge off something, the noise inside his own head that always ran a little hotter on nights like this, when it was good, when he let himself have it.

"I cannot do this when I am old man,” he said.

Connors stopped walking backwards. "Wait, what?"

Rozanov shrugged. "I can do this while I play. After…" He gestured vaguely at the lights, the night, all of it. "Different."

"How is it different," Hammersmith said.

"I am not American citizen. Visa is hockey. No hockey, no visa."

That cut through the noise a little. The way real things sometimes did, even drunk.

Connors blinked. "Wait, seriously?"

"Yes."

"That's, no, that's dumb," Hammersmith said.

"Yeah, that's a terrible rule," Carmichael added.

"Deeply stupid," St-Simon said, which from him landed like a verdict.

Marley nodded. "Bad rule."

"It is nothing. It is fine," Rozanov said.

"It's not fine," Connors said immediately. "We're doing seventy-year-old Vegas. That's already decided."

"With worse knees," Hammersmith added.

"Way worse," Carmichael said.

"Better stories," St-Simon said.

Rozanov shook his head a little. "You are all very drunk."

Connors stopped again. Snapped his fingers. "Okay. No, we're fixing it."

"We're not fixing immigration law," Carmichael said.

"Green card marriage," Connors said.

Rozanov blinked. "What."

"Green card marriage," Hammersmith repeated, like that helped. "We just marry you to someone. Done."

"This is not how it works."

"It's close enough," Connors said.

Carmichael frowned. "Is it, though."

"No," St-Simon said.

"Maybe," Hammersmith said at the same time.

Marley nodded. "Yeah, that seems real."

Rozanov looked at all of them. "You are all idiots.”

"We're helping," Connors said. "Okay, so who do we…" He stopped. Blinked. Slowly turned his head. "Wait."

Hammersmith lit up immediately. "Oh my god."

St-Simon was already smiling.

Carmichael looked between them. "What."

Connors pointed at Rozanov. "No girls tonight. That was the rule."

"That was for—" Rozanov started.

"No loopholes," Hammersmith cut in. "You already used one."

"That did not count."

"It counted," Connors said. "Everyone saw it."

Marley nodded. "Counted."

Rozanov looked at him. "You are not helping."

"Never do."

Connors turned, looked at Marley, then back at Rozanov, grin spreading slow.

"…wait."

St-Simon actually laughed.

"No," Rozanov said immediately.

"Okay, but listen," Hammersmith started.

"No."

"You need to get married," Connors said, talking over him. "Legal reasons. Rule says no girls. So," he gestured between them, "Marleau. Done. Best friends. He already deals with you."

Rozanov stared at him. Then at Marley.

Marley looked back. Shrugged. "Yeah. Best friends."

"Exactly," Connors said. "Who else are you trusting with this? Nobody."

"Marley's a solid pick," Hammersmith said. "Low drama."

"Low maintenance," Carmichael added.

"Very stable," St-Simon said.

"Excellent defence man" Hammersmith said

Marley nodded. "Strong trait."

Rozanov looked between them, like he was trying to form an argument and just could not quite get there.

Then he laughed. Short, sharp.

"This is ridiculous."

"Is it," Connors said.

"Yes."

"Or—"

"It is not genius," Rozanov cut in. He shook his head, still smiling. "I marry Marley. Very romantic."

Marley shrugged. "I'm single."

That broke them.

Connors folded. Hammersmith doubled over. Carmichael laughed despite himself.

St-Simon lifted his brows. "Well. Timing works out."

Rozanov pointed at Marley. "He does not even know how to dance properly.”

"I stand," Marley said.

"That's, like, the most stable foundation possible," Hammersmith said.

"Very stable," Connors agreed.

Rozanov laughed again, softer this time. "You are all insane."

"Yeah,” Connors started, already turning. “We know, let’s go.”

Rozanov waved him off. "No."

Hammersmith pointed down the Strip. "There's literally a chapel right there."

They all looked.

There was.

Connors turned back slowly. "Rozy."

Rozanov dragged a hand over his face, still smiling. "You are unbelievable."

"Let's go," Connors said, already moving.

And this time, Rozanov didn't stop it. He didn't peel off.

He just huffed a quiet laugh, fell into step beside Marley, and let himself get pulled along toward the glowing chapel like it made perfect sense.

The chapel was smaller up close.

Not less bright, if anything the neon got louder the closer you stood to it, but smaller, tucked between a souvenir shop and something selling frozen drinks in guitar shaped containers. The door chimed when Connors pushed it open like he owned the place.

"Hell— hi!" Connors called, already halfway inside.

"Inside voice," St-Simon said, not slowing.

They filled the space immediately. Big bodies, loud voices, too much presence for a room that small. The air smelled like air freshener and something faintly floral trying very hard to be convincing.

Behind the counter, a woman in a blazer looked up.

Her gaze moved across them, Connors leaning on the counter, Hammersmith grinning like this was Christmas, Carmichael hanging back, St-Simon composed, Marley steady, and landed on Rozanov, just inside the door, taking it all in.

And smiling. Not the usual one. A real one.

"Hi," she said, professional, but amused. "What can I do for you?"

"He needs to get married," Connors said immediately, pointing.

Rozanov lifted a hand slightly. "Yes. I do."

She looked at him. Paused. "Of course you do."

"To him," Hammersmith added, pointing at Marley.

Marley raised a hand. "Hi."

"Hi," she said, blinking once.

Rozanov stepped up to the counter, easy, like he'd already committed.

"We would like a wedding."

She pressed her lips together, holding back a smile. "Yeah, we can do that."

"I want rings. Good ones," Rozanov said.

"Okay."

"Big ones," he added, gesturing vaguely. "Very, impressive."

"He means expensive looking," Hammersmith said.

"Got it," she said.

She set out a tray. Simple, tasteful rings.

Rozanov barely looked. "No." He pointed behind her. "That one."

It was enormous. Gold, thick, with a green stone that looked a little too bright to be real.

St-Simon made a small approving sound. "Bold."

"That's insane," Carmichael said.

"That's incredible," Hammersmith corrected.

"Yes," Rozanov said. "Exactly."

Marley leaned in slightly. "Big."

"Very big," Carmichael said.

Rozanov nodded, satisfied. "Good."

"And for you?" she asked Marley.

Marley glanced at the tray, then at Rozanov, then back. Picked something plain. Solid.

"This one."

"Nice contrast," St-Simon said.

She rang them up like this happened every night, even though it clearly did not.

"Officiant preference?" she asked.

"Elvis," Connors said immediately.

"Obviously Elvis," Hammersmith said.

"Yeah, Elvis," Marley added.

Rozanov nodded. "Elvis."

She laughed, gave up pretending not to. "Of course."

After paying for the rings and the marriage licence she led them to a room was only a little bigger than the one before. 

White walls, fake flowers, soft music that immediately got drowned out.

"Oh my god this is actually happening," Connors whispered, loudly.

"Dude," Carmichael muttered.

"Keep it together," St-Simon said, already pulling out his phone.

"Absolutely not," Hammersmith said, doing the same. "I'm documenting this."

Marley stood at the front, hands loose, waiting.

Rozanov stepped up beside him. Close. Easy.

"You good?" Marley asked, low.

"Yeah," Rozanov said.

A door opened. Elvis walked in. He was wearing a teal sequined jumpsuit. 

"Evenin', folks."

Connors made a noise that was almost a squeal.

"Best decision we've ever made," Hammersmith said.

Elvis took his place, didn't even blink at the situation.

"We're gathered here tonight."

"Historic moment," Connors whispered.

"Connors!" St-Simon said.

"I am being quiet."

Rozanov looked at Marley.

Marley looked back.

Steady. No overthinking.

"Do you," Elvis said, turning to Rozanov, "take this man"

"Yes," Rozanov said.

Elvis paused. "To be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"Yes."

Hammersmith choked. Carmichael covered his mouth. St-Simon just watched, smiling.

"And do you," Elvis said, turning, "take this man"

"Yeah," Marley said.

"To be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

"Beautiful. Rings."

Rozanov took his immediately, turned it once, then slid it onto Marley's hand, careful, precise.

Marley took his and slid it onto Rozanov's finger. Clean fit.

"Nice," Marley said.

"Very nice," Rozanov said.

"I now pronounce you."

"Oh my god," Connors whispered.

"You may kiss the groom."

Rozanov looked at Marley.

Marley looked at him.

They both waited for a second, expecting the other to move first.

Then Rozanov leaned in, quick, before it could get weird. Light, brief, almost careful to a fault.

Done.

They both froze for half a second after.

Rozanov pulled back. Marley blinked.

And then it cracked.

Rozanov let out a short laugh. Marley huffed, and then they were both laughing, quiet at first, then worse, shoulders knocking.

"Okay," Marley said.

"Okay," Rozanov echoed.

"Oh my god," Connors wheezed.

"That was terrible," Hammersmith said. “Roz you are supposed to be good at this.”

"That was incredible," Connors corrected.

Carmichael laughed, shaking his head. St-Simon clapped once. "Perfect."

Elvis nodded like he'd done something meaningful.

The woman leaned in the doorway, openly laughing now. "Congratulations."

Connors threw an arm around both of them. "That's it. You're married. Done."

"Yes," Rozanov said.

"Green card secured," Hammersmith said.

"Lifetime deal," Connors added.

"We're keeping him," Carmichael said.

"Obviously," St-Simon said.

Rozanov looked down at the ring, turning it so it caught the light.

"It's excellent."

"It's huge," Carmichael said.

"Yes."

Marley looked at his own. "Good ring."

"Good ring," Rozanov agreed.

Connors squeezed them both. "You're not going anywhere."

Rozanov looked up at that, still smiling, but softer now.

"No," he said.

Marley nodded. "No."

Morning didn't arrive gently. It pressed in all at once, light forcing through thin curtains, the AC humming somewhere in the wall, the dry desert air sitting in his throat like chalk. Rozanov surfaced into it unevenly, the way you came up from deep water.

He kept his eyes closed.

Then opened them to a ceiling he didn't recognize.

He turned his head. Marleau was too close, warm and solid, one arm thrown across Rozanov's chest like he'd decided this was where he belonged. Rozanov just lay there looking at him.

Connors's leg was across his. Hammersmith was half off the bed, somehow still asleep. Carmichael had migrated near their feet. Across the room, St-Simon sat upright in a chair, asleep like he'd opted out of chaos entirely.

Memory hit in pieces. Neon. Noise. Elvis. His own voice saying yes.

He looked down. The ring was there, too big, catching the light.

I need a cigarette.

The thought arrived clean and immediate. He didn't move. Couldn't, with Marley pinned against him, with Connors's weight across his legs. So he just lay there, thinking. 

Russia came first. His father by the window, forgetting names, forgetting faces, forgetting him. His brother's voice, hard and familiar. Money, always money. Not love, just expectation.

Then five years with Hollander slipped in, careful distance, almosts, things never said out loud. And now this, Vegas, a ring, Marley beside him, his best friend who was not the problem, who would never be the problem, and a decision made in laughter that could still spiral. Russia would not forgive this if it became something to forgive. Citizenship was paper. His career sat on lines he was not supposed to cross.

The thoughts kept stacking.

Marley's arm didn't move.

That was what cut through it.

Heavy, steady, uncomplicated.

Rozanov looked at him properly. Still asleep, unbothered, like none of this required analysis.

Then he looked past him. Connors, Hammersmith, Carmichael, St-Simon. These idiots. Loud, reckless, present. They weren't measuring him. They weren't waiting.

They just wanted him there.

The thought stayed.

He looked down at the ring again.

"...okay," he said quietly.

Connors woke instantly. "Oh my god! You got married!"

Hammersmith groaned. Carmichael blinked. "Oh. We did that."

Rozanov nudged Marley. "Marley."

"Yeah," Marley said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's it?" Connors said.

Hammersmith laughed. "Man woke up married and went yeah."

St-Simon shifted. "Good morning."

"This is situation," Rozanov said.

"No," Connors said. "This is a solution."

"Green card," Hammersmith said.

"Obviously," St-Simon said.

"Breakfast," Marley added.

"Yeah," Carmichael said.

Connors grabbed the phone. "Room service. Everything."

Rozanov let his head fall back.

"...and hashbrowns," he said. "And someone open a window."

Connors looked at him. "Rozy."

"Just a little."

"The "team doctors—"

"Are not here," Rozanov said. "And I am married now. It is very stressful morning, yes?"

There was a pause.

Then Hammersmith got up and cracked the window anyway.

Morning air came in, cool and dry.

Connors grinned. "Married life looks good on you."

Rozanov closed his eyes.

Yeah.

Maybe it did.